Beast
by miss skinny love
Summary: Ekrizdis finds a curious creature. It is skeletal; it floats; it exudes mist, almost; it ... kisses?


QLFC Round 4

 _Team:_ Kenmare Kestrels

 _Position:_ Chaser 2 — _write from a pet's perspective about their everyday life_

 _Prompts:_

(action) running

(sound) bark or mew (doesn't necessarily have to be made by a dog/cat)

(phrase) under the stairs

 _Word-count (excluding A/N and title):_ 1,361

 _Beta:_ the amazing "redefine anywhere" and "roseusvortex"

 _Note:_ I _do_ mean 'Tomas'; and not 'Thomas' :D

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Beast

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 _for what is more 'everyday' than the very first day?_

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It awakens. Was it sleeping? It was not. It was born into the world. It grew, like a fungus. It rose from the mist. When it is finally aware, it shudders. Awareness is new. A touch is pressed to its face. It nuzzles into that touch, almost, but there is no affection in the action.

When it rises, it stretches, like a viper rising to strike its prey. It is enclosed. There are four walls around it. A door, too. It does not know how it knows these things … but some instinct — some monstrous instinct — tells him that the knowledge comes from the human crumpled at its feet. The human's eyes are glassy. Drool gathers at the edges of the mouth.

It turns away from the sight. It is still hungry, but the human is empty — there is no use in it now. Another touch. The touch is not from the comatose human. It is from one like itself: skeletal and wraith-like and starving.

Always starving.

It nuzzles deeper into that touch. _Feed me,_ it breathes, but its brethren does not respond. Instead, it leaves, ghosting out the door.

Alone, the newborn sways in the non-existent breeze. There are noises. A loud clang. Light flashes through the open door. It waits, curious.

It is still so hungry.

A roar of laughter catches it by surprise.

A man stumbles though into the room. The man is drunk — swaying and giggling. When the human sees him, it pauses, shocked. "Merlin," he breathes. "What sort of beast are ye?" Then the human spots its comrade crumpled on the floor, and awe turns into horror. His fleshy mouth opens and he shrieks out, "Johnny!"

The newborn sweeps forwards and catches that screaming face. It is _so_ hungry. It leans forward and opens its mouth. The man's eyes bulge and his arms flail wildly. He grunts, terrified, but the newborn pays him no heed. It presses forward, eagerly, and then encloses its mouth around the human's. The human is warm. It is so cold. It kisses him, but this kiss imparts no love. Instead, the newborn feasts. It gulps down joy like expensive wine. Hope slinks down its throat: a rich, honeyed mead. Nostalgia is strong and bitter. Happiness a hot, spicy brew. It drinks and drinks and drinks, and all the while the human's flailing movements … fade …

When it is done, it drops the human carelessly. Its knowledge has deepened: it knows friendship is powerful, but it cannot understand its composition, yet.

The newborn is stronger, now. Pleased, it rises up and up and up. Stills.

Another human. This one is not wholly afraid, though it is pale. It struggles against the newborn's presence. Yet … the human is not running away at the sight of two comatose wizards and a great, hulking beast hovering over them.

"Fascinating," the human says, and it is holding a stick in its hand. The newborn knows it is a wand, just as it knows the word "human" or that it will never have its _own_ happiness, no matter how much it feasts. It will never be warm. "Your existence is unprecedented. I have no knowledge of you. May I inquire as to what you are?"

The newborn stares. It is young, and curious, and sated (for now). It drifts closer, intrigued.

"Are you cold?" the wizard asks. "I believe you are. You are naked as a babe. I, myself, am chilled. That is due to your presence, I am sure." A moment's hesitation. "My name is Ekrizdis. Here," he says, and shrugs out of his cloak. It is a plain black robe with only a few tears in it.

The newborn stares. It does not accept the robe.

"What precisely did you do to my brethren, if I may?" Ekrizdis asks.

The newborn stares.

So does Ekrizdis. Finally, the human says: "I saw you … kiss … Tomas. And merely standing next to you … is horrible." His eyes glint. Admiration, the newborn realises. "I have never felt so awful! Truly awful!" he cries.

The newborn stares.

"I have an island," Ekrizdis goes on. His eyes are black and his eyebrows strong. "There is a place there that bears the name Azkaban. I pursue knowledge, there. Many a man has graced those shores" — he smiles widely — "but ne'er did they leave. I would have you come with me, to this place. I would feed you — you are hungry, are you not? As many men as you like," he speaks quickly, enthusiastically — all the while tapping his wand against his thigh, like some happy, happy child.

The newborn stretches out its hands. It is hungry again.

Ekrizdis does not flinch back.

The newborn pauses. Curious. It is so curious. The human does not cry or try to escape. And he offers men. It is _so_ hungry.

"Please," the human presses. "You are magnificent. You are glorious."

The newborn stills. It is. It is all of those things, it thinks. _The composition of friendship._ It nods, slowly. It will go, out of curiosity. Perhaps it will still drink down all of Ekrizdis' happiness and the glint in his eyes. This is not a good man, but the newborn is sure the wizard's dark, twisted satisfaction would be richer than any good man's joy.

"I cannot express my pleasure." The robe is offered again.

The newborn reaches out. Skeletal fingers wrap around the robe. Slowly, it dons the item.

"There," Ekrizdis purrs. "You are a fearsome sight." He is correct. The newborn is ghastly — a skeleton wrapped in a dark robe; hovering above the ground — defying gravity; a bottomless pit of a mouth.

"I will transport us to the island, if you would will it — ?"

The newborn dips its head slowly again.

A warm hand clamps down on its wrist. It is so different to the cold. And then away they go, spinning mindlessly into the abyss until they are spat out elsewhere.

The newborn stares. Azkaban is a terribly lovely sight. Cold and miserable.

"Welcome home," Ekrizdis breathes.

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It is a surprisingly smooth transition. The newborn eats and eats and eats, and Ekrizdis grows happier the more it eats. His madness shields him from the newborn's debilitating presence, to a degree. A strange human. Ekrizdis is … a curious thing. The men he brings for the newborn are from all walks of life — some blabber madly; some sob; some do not care; some are soft souls; some fearsome; and some bark like wild dogs. The newborn drinks down their souls. It does not discriminate.

It is night. The newborn brings its mouth closer to its latest meal. The man mewls out with fear. Soon he is quiet.

"Magnificent, pet," Ekrizdis praises, raising a glass as if to toast this simple thing — this simple feeding. "I have been deep in thought."

The newborn turns to face Ekrizdis. It is still so hungry.

"A name. You need a name. I have found the perfect one — a blend of two words: demon and tormentor. Dementor. I believe it is apt. Do you approve?"

The newborn does not care. It turns to its second meal — a red-haired man deep in sorrow. It drinks. The _Dementor_ drinks.

"I have plans, pet. I see you stationed all over the world — your kind. You can feed to your heart's content … and I … I will direct your feeding. I believe that you and I can do great things. You will strike fear into many, with me as your Master. Imagine," he breathes, "imagine you in the quarters of royalty, or hidden under the stairs of the Minister of Magic, or ghosting beneath a bed. You will terrify them. I will control them."

The newborn stills. Ah. Ekrizdis has delusions, it sees. No matter. It will feast on barking and mewling men, for now, and let Ekrizdis' happiness swell, and then it will kiss him, too: the man who did not run. It is young; a newborn; but _this ... ?_ This is not the composition of friendship.

It is young, yes, but oh, all the souls swimming in its belly are old.


End file.
